Dehumanization
by 1-1 Marines
Summary: One of the worst effects of war. Rated T for obvious reasons.


**ME: This was inspired by the psychology of war and war media as well as the Red vs. Blue episode "Locus of Control."**

I am one of many soldiers of the Panem Liberation Army, the military of District Thirteen. I was assigned to the Ground Force, the main branch, at age fourteen and was selected for infantry training.

I didn't volunteer out of loyalty. A conscript and former classmate I knew from my days as a pre-teen managed to join the People's Armed Police, the organization responsible for enforcing law and order amongst the civilians of my District. His reasoning was to stay away from the frontline whenever the war erupted again.

While I understand his reasoning, I could never be a member of the Police. I have no love for President Alma Coin and thus I refuse to bully civilians into complying with her wishes. Even if I was as devout as some of my comrades to the Communist Party of District Thirteen, I hated growing up in the confined, artificial environment of Thirteen. The best chance I had of breathing fresh air and walking on dirt was if I joined the Ground Force.

So I joined up.

After completing my training, I was assigned to a squad tasked with manning a defensive outpost. As part of the Home Guard, a regiment commanded by Colonel Stanislav Boggs, I was to defend District Thirteen from external threats at all costs. True, it was safer inside the bunker that is Thirteen, but I would rather die in ten years outside than live for a hundred in that hellhole.

Since District Thirteen is located on an island in the center of a reservoir, one could see wild water from my squad's outpost. It was a reasonably comfortable job, I admit. One exercised, manned their post, and patrolled, but in general life was quite serene and enjoyable.

A pity the Second Rebellion, also known as "the Mockingjay War," has changed that.

After seventy-five years of hiding, Thirteen went to war. As losses increased, my squad was reassigned to the frontline.

After a year of peace and quiet, my squadmates and I are no longer privileged members of Third Platoon, D Company, First Battalion, Home Guard. We are now a step above the continental rebels the officer corps throws at the Loyalist lines, fodder meant to feed the beast that is war.

I inspect the assault rifle that hangs from a sling. It is a modified bullpup version of the AK-12 designed by Mikhail Kalashnikov of the Soviet Union, the magazine loaded behind the trigger to increase barrel length while keeping the rifle at a reasonable overall length. A bayonet is mounted over the muzzle in case of close quarters combat. That is good, because I am not an expert at using the gladius carried on my left leg.

My squad consists of ten soldiers-including me, of course. First there is the Squad Leader, who does exactly what his title implies. Then there is the medic responsible for taking care of injured and wounded soldiers. The eight remaining soldiers are divided into two fireteams, Team One and Team Two. Included in each is a Team Leader, grenadier, automatic rifleman, and rifleman. As the rifleman for Team Two, I am "the baseline standard for all infantry."

"Soldiers," says our Squad Leader, "get your kit together. We're on foot patrol."

"Orders are orders," is a saying in District Thirteen, particularly among the PLA. Rather than question or disobey, we simply grumble and grab our gear. Within minutes we have left the relative safety of the FOB.

District Two is a nice place, but unfortunately it is seeing arguably the fiercest battles yet. Brothers fighting brothers, fathers fighting sons...this is pure madness.

As we walk through the forest, however, my thoughts are interrupted as the rifleman from Team One, on point, drops to one knee and raises a clenched fist into the air.

We all stop as the Squad Leader asks, "What is it?"

"Contact," she replies. "I have a visual on one Whitecoat in a stream, dead ahead."

He nods. "Command wants prisoners, Soldier. If this Whitecoat's alone, we can take it in relatively easy."

"Key word being _relatively_ , Comrade Squad Leader." One Rifleman seems annoyed. "It's armed, just to clarify."

"Soldier, I didn't ask you for your opinion," comes the reply. "Move in, everyone. I want this Peacekeeper intimidated and captured five minutes ago."

The Peacekeeper, clutching a white assault rifle that looks nothing like mine, is shocked when we reveal ourselves.

"Freeze!"

"Don't move!"

"Drop the fucking gun!"

"Put down your weapon or we will shoot!" I yell, hoping to scare it (since we cannot tell the gender of the Loyalist).

Unfortunately, the Peacekeeper does not drop its weapon but does lower it. The face of this soldier is hidden behind a visor, currently polarized for intimidation. The helmet is much more advanced than the ones we wear, for it is fully sealed and would appear sleek and almost robotic if not for the two oxygen filters which resemble those used by our gas masks.

"Why don't you come with us, friend?" Squad Leader asks it.

Suddenly his radio comes alive. "We're under attack!" A voice says in a panicked tone. "Mayday, Mayday! All available units, please respond immediately!"

Lack of comms discipline is normally something to condemn, but this is an unwelcome development. With an attack on the FOB, our comrades are at risk. Gaining a prisoner to be interrogated suddenly is no longer important.

"Well, ain't that a shame," says One Rifleman. "Comrade Squad Leader, I say we kill this thing and move on."

"Agreed," he responds before pointing at me. "You, go with her. I'll keep the Whitecoat distracted while you two blow its brains out."

I'm shocked. Does no one value life? "It's scared, Comrade," I protest. "I think it's trying to surrender."

"I'd do the same thing," he acknowledges. "Unfortunately, we can't take this Whitecoat prisoner. So give it a merciful death."

"But-."

"Kid, you listen here!" He snaps as I'm grabbed by my shoulder. "You are a Soldier of the Rebellion! In this war, you are nothing but a weapon meant to kill the enemy! That means you follow orders without question or hesitation, am I clear?!"

The Peacekeeper snarls and suddenly opens fire.

"Drop 'em!" One Rifleman orders. The roar of assault rifles and light machine guns announce the death warrant of the Loyalist soldier, whose visor has been shattered, the once clean white uniform stained red with blood.

My Team Leader took a burst in the chest and is now dying. After saying his goodbyes, the Squad Leader puts a 5.7x28mm round in his head.

Am I nothing but a bullet to be fired at the discretion of the leadership? Is that what I am?

 **ME: A/N: This was based off the dehumanization of bad guys in fiction. Stormtroopers, Peacekeepers, whatever, they all tend to get the short end of the stick.**

 **Credit goes to Rooster Teeth and (I guess) fellow fanfic author _ForFutureReference_ for inspiring this.**


End file.
